The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Already in his pants, and with them buttoned, he was stalking toward his dresser. She glanced from it to the man and quickly put two and two together. The gun. He’s going to get the gun. In only a moment he would have it and would leave her behind. Galvanized by urgency, she raced to cut him off, darted by him, evaded his lunge to grab her, ignored his “Damn you, Yancey!” and beat him there. Knowing he was on her heels, she yanked open a drawer and cried out in triumph when she saw the weapon resting atop his neatly folded handkerchiefs. Grabbing it up, triumphant, she turned around—and ran smack into Sam’s solid bare chest. A startled yelp escaped her.

  He plucked the Colt out of her hand and smiled grimly at her. “Thank you.”

  Yancey held out her hand and all but stomped her foot. “Give me that blasted gun this instant.”

  He held it up and out of her reach. “I will not. As we agreed that I’m going in first, I’ll need the gun.”

  “Oh, really?” She crossed her arms under her breasts. “And what do I do, unarmed as I will be and behind you, should someone come through that door?”

  She stabbed a pointing finger at the door that opened onto the hall. Sam glared at it and then her. Undaunted, she raised her eyebrows, awaiting his answer. Looking furious, he said, “What do you suggest we do, then? We can’t both hold the gun.”

  “I agree. All right, keep the gun. But we’ll both go by way of the other door, out through the hall, and enter from there. That should surprise whoever might be in my bedroom. If our villain is still about, he’ll want to get away. And when he does, he will have to go past us.”

  Sam firmed his lips. “I would have thought of that … the other door, I mean.”

  “Of course you would have.” Sarcasm dripped from her remark. She shook her head. “This is exactly why I never work with a partner. All this arguing and these delays. I think our villain has now had enough time to have escaped as far as Lakeheath-on-Somerset.”

  Vexation still ruled Sam’s features. “Oh, do you? Allow me to point out, Miss Pinkerton Agent, that I am not the one who was the delay. You are the one who argued with me when I would have got up and—”

  “I was the delay? I kept you from your job? Me?” Yancey held her arms out, allowing him a chance to see for himself the picture she made. There she stood, one-third his size and in his shirt, the sleeves of which had hung more than a foot past the tips of her fingers before she rolled them up and the tail of which hung down past her calves. “With my tremendous bulk, I held you down and delayed you?”

  He squared his jaw and a muscle there jumped. “All right, then, I was the delay. Now if that’s all, let’s go.” He whipped around, again facing the dressing room door. The man took two long, determined strides in that direction before Yancey discreetly cleared her throat. Sam stopped, did an about-face, and stalked toward the door to the hallway. “This way,” he announced forcefully.

  Exhaling, thinking their behavior had taken on the overtones of a theatrical farce, and that the scream had surely been that of an off-stage actress, Yancey followed after him and instructed, “When you get to that door, Sam, don’t just open it and stand there, exposed. Open it and then stay to one side, against the wall. Wait to see if anyone rushes in or shoots at you. It stands to reason that our villain could be standing there waiting for you.”

  Sam kept walking. “I assure you that I have every bit as diabolical a bent of mind as the best of villains, Yancey. After all, you will recall that I too lived out in the wilds of America, and I know full well how to use this gun and how to defend myself.”

  “I, of course, believe you.”

  He stopped short and jerked around to stare angrily down at her. “Good. And I thought you also believed our villain to be as far as Lakeheath-on-Somerset.”

  She nodded. “I do. I think by now he’s even had time to be breakfasting, perhaps, at the tavern.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes and glared. Yancey raised her eyebrows and smiled. It was true. She did believe that whatever the damage was in her bedroom, it was already done and the villain was far removed from the scene. After all, the markers for an ongoing life-or-death struggle weren’t there. No sounds of crashing and banging about of furniture. No further screams. No shots fired. And no moans or cries for help from a wounded victim.

  A wounded victim. The very notion frightened her—if she put Sam’s face on that bleeding person.

  “I wish you’d put on a shirt,” she said suddenly, frowning, her gaze roving over his beautiful musculature under the smooth skin of his bare chest.

  “A shirt? What the devil for?”

  Yancey’s mouth turned down with the mere thought of him lying wounded and bleeding. “So you won’t look so … so exposed.”

  “Good God, Yancey, it’s a bit late for prudish modesty, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Modesty be hanged. I was thinking of a bullet. Look at you.” She cut her hand up and down his length. “You look so … fragile, Sam. I hate it.”

  Sam’s expression became a soft smile. He squeezed her arm affectionately. “Thank you. It means everything to me that you care. But a shirt won’t stop a bullet, Yancey, if that’s what awaits me.”

  Yancey’s heart all but stopped beating. “Don’t say things like that, Sam. Don’t. Just be careful. Please.”

  “I will. I promise you I will.” With that, he turned around, again intent on the door ahead of them.

  Right behind him, focused on his broad shoulders and suffering terribly, Yancey knew she could not allow his amateur intentions to be his undoing. Certainly he was a big, smart man with a weapon of his own. But he needed her instincts and her experience whether he would admit it or not. And, for her part, she needed him alive.

  This could not be worse, she knew, this caring for him so. Loving Sam had made her cautious. And this caution, she knew, was exactly why Mr. Pinkerton frowned on his agents having families. She’d thought his a repressive attitude. But now, she understood her boss fully. She wanted to live for Sam, but she would die trying to protect him. At once cautious and rash. A potentially deadly mixture for an agent.

  Just then, Sam put a hand out, urging her to get behind him. Yancey quickly complied as Sam leaned a shoulder against the wall, his gun in his right hand. He reached out with his left to jerk the door open. With much high drama, the well-oiled door instantly swung wide and then slowed before hitting the opposite wall. Yancey held her breath, waiting. Nothing happened. No one charged in. No shots were fired. No knife came sailing through the doorway.

  Sam, leading with his gun—and with Yancey admiring his technique—snatched a quick look out into the hall. Then he looked over his shoulder at her. “No one’s there. You ready?”

  She nodded that she was. Sam winked at her … and in a flash Yancey realized that only a moment ago she’d admitted to herself that she loved him. Before she could do more than stare up into his devastatingly handsome face and be stunned by the depths of her feelings for him, Sam pushed away from the wall and incautiously stepped into the open doorway, essentially framing himself there as he grinned at her and held his free hand out, wanting her to take it.

  “Sam! No!” Terrified for him, Yancey grabbed his hand with both of hers and pulled with all her strength, finally gaining his cooperation in allowing her to pull him out of harm’s way.

  “What the devil are you do—”

  “Anyone could have been on the other side of that door and against the wall, Sam, just as we were in here.” She threw herself into his embrace, fiercely hugging him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her cheek against his beating heart. “Are you just trying to get yourself killed?”

  His arms encircled her. “Yancey, what has got into you? Are you telling me that we should stay in this room for the remainder of our lives because there might possibly be someone on the other side of this door who wishes us harm?”

  “Yes,” was her emotion-filled reply. He was so warm, so alive, and his heart beat steadily in his chest.


  “Nothing is going to happen to me. Yancey, look at me.” She felt him tugging at her, his efforts hampered by the gun he held in his hand. Still, she complied, pulling back only enough to look up at him, at his sweet, precious face. “What is really wrong with you?”

  Her expression crumpled. “Everything.” She rested her forehead against the warm skin of his bare chest. “Oh, Sam, this is awful. Just plain awful. I love you. And I hate that I do.”

  Sam tensed, then tugged at her again. Yancey looked up at him. He was staring down at her, and his eyes were wide with wonder and amusement. “You love me and you hate that you do? While I’m thrilled to know that—the part about you loving me, at any rate—your timing could not be worse, my love.”

  Yancey let him go. “I know. It just ruins everything. My whole life, Sam. Everything.”

  He gestured with both hands, actually waving the gun about. Yancey saw her chance and grabbed it from him.

  “What the—?” Sam sputtered. “Come back here, you little vixen. Give me that gun.”

  Ignoring his cry of protest and evading his grasp, Yancey darted around him and ran out into the hall, turning right and holding the gun two-fisted out in front of her. But what she saw there, nothing could have prepared her to see. Shocked, gasping, she dropped her pose and stood with her gun hand down at her side. “Oh … my … God.”

  Sam came charging right behind her and snatched the gun from her unresisting hand. “Aha!” But when she had no response, he straightened up and gripped her elbow. “Yancey?”

  Feeling numb, as if she were drowning in a cold, swift current, Yancey looked up at him but pointed down the hall. “Look.”

  Shifting his weight and turning a bit, he did … he looked. Then he too dropped his gun hand to his side. “What in God’s name has happened here?”

  What, indeed. Standing just outside the open door to Yancey’s bedroom was the stalwart Scotty … with the uniformed and limp body of Mrs. Edgars, the housekeeper, held in his arms. The woman’s arms were flung wide and her head lolled drunkenly.

  Muttering an oath, Sam started forward, toward his butler. But Yancey snaked a hand out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “No. Sam, wait.”

  “Yancey, don’t be ridiculous. It’s Scotty.”

  “I can see that. But the truth remains that you don’t know what has happened here.” She quickly assessed the evidence before her. No blood. No weapon in sight. No scratches on Scotty. And Mrs. Edgars’s bun wasn’t even the least bit mussed. No struggle, then.

  “Yancey, I hardly think—Dear God! Nana!”

  Yancey saw her at the same moment Sam did. A draining weakness invaded her, making jelly out of her muscles. She grabbed in earnest at Sam’s solidity and hung on. “Oh, Sam. Oh, my God, no.”

  This could not be. Yancey refused to believe it. It just couldn’t be. And yet it was. Her Grace Nana, of all people, had exited Yancey’s bedroom. She stood there in the hallway. Milling around her ankles and her trailing skirts were the ever-present Mary, Jane, and Alice, the white cats, and Mr. Marples, the terrier. Though the three cats appeared unaffected, the dog’s ears and tail drooped unhappily.

  The front of Nana’s dress was covered in blood. In her hand was a sharp knife of the kind readily available in the manor’s kitchen.

  “You’d best come quickly, Samuel, Sarah,” the very ancient little lady announced calmly, shaking her doddering little head. “Poor Roderick is in there.” She pointed an age-gnarled finger at the open door to Yancey’s bedroom. “I’m afraid he’s taken a knife to the back.”

  * * *

  No more than an hour later, dressed now and with his mind an aggrieved mishmash of emotions, Sam was in his study. His loaded gun lay atop his desk, within easy reach. He was pitched forward in his desk chair. With his elbows atop his knees, he scrubbed his hands over his beard-stubbled jaw and concentrated only on breathing. He looked up to see Yancey still at the cabinet that sported his crystal liquor service and private stock. She was pouring them both a much-deserved drink.

  Sam watched her every movement as if each gesture of hers was the only thing keeping his heart beating. In some ways, they were. He freely admitted to himself that he needed her warm, competent presence and her closeness. Otherwise, he would die. He was sure of it. Yet he had accomplished many important tasks this morning, and on his own. He now reviewed them for himself in order to make certain that he had attended to every person and detail. First of all, he had turned Nana over to her shocked and distressed maid. And Mrs. Edgars had been helped away to her room by Robin and an entire contingent of clucking maids.

  Two stalwart men Sam trusted, gardeners both, had been summoned and charged with the removal of Roderick’s body to a downstairs drawing room. Upstairs maids worked now to right Yancey’s bedroom and scrub away the blood. And others would be cleaning Roderick up before he was placed in a simple coffin even now being constructed at Sam’s further orders. Only then had Sam, with great reluctance and a heavy heart, awakened his mother to tell her of this newest family tragedy. The dear woman was in shock and her maids were attending to her every need.

  An errant part of Sam’s mind wondered just how many maids he did employ.

  But Roderick … thus trussed and nailed down would accompany Sam’s mother back to her sister’s. Poor Aunt Jane. This will certainly kill her. Sam’s frown was a grimace of guilt—guilt for not accompanying his mother to his aunt’s. But how could he leave his household at the mercy of a murderer who might strike again and whose identity they did not know? Sam shook his head. No, he couldn’t leave now. His duty was clearly here.

  Just then, Yancey moved away from the cabinet, her actions drawing Sam’s attention back to the moment. She approached him, her practiced steps not allowing a drop of liquor to spill from the two squat but brimming tumblers she held. Sam stared at her in admiration. Dressed in a belted blue skirt and stylish white blouse, and with her hair pulled back at her neck and held in a ribbon, she looked the innocent girl until one took into account the gun she had tucked into her waistband. No more unpleasant surprises, she’d said earlier. And no more polite pretending. This is war.

  She stopped in front of him. “Here you go. Drink up.”

  As if she were a doctor and the whisky medicine, Sam took the glass from her and helped himself to a healthy dose of the rich, warming liquor. He then watched her sip at her own portion as she seated herself in the leather-upholstered chair he’d pulled around from in front of his desk for her. He wanted her close. In fact, her skirt-covered knees all but touched his.

  Feeling very warm toward her, yet numb about everything else, Sam smiled at her, and she returned it. “You are the strongest person I know, Yancey. Made of iron. Very steady.”

  She raised her glass in a salute to him. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” She sat forward, her expression a mask of compassion. “And you? How are you? Are you feeling any stronger yet, Sam?”

  Greatly embarrassed, he couldn’t quite hold her gaze. “I believe so. I’ve, well, I’ve never lost consciousness like that before.”

  Yancey patted his knee. “Many people do at the sight of blood, Sam. And especially if it’s splattered on one’s beloved nana, who happens also to be holding a large knife. I myself thought surely I’d follow you to the floor when I saw her like that.”

  “You’re kind to say so. But thank God she hadn’t been injured in any way.” His strong emotion had him seeking Yancey’s wonderful understanding eyes.

  “Nor was she wrong about Roderick’s being dead. I can safely say he most certainly was … but only just.”

  Curious about that since he’d been consoling his mother while Yancey had dressed, told the staff she was a Pinkerton, and then questioned everyone present—she’d also, in the interest of safety, banished every uninvolved servant but Scotty to his or her room—Sam asked, “How did you make that determination, about the time of the murder?”

  “The evidence. His blood was still bright red. And the, uh,
body—I’m so sorry, Sam, I don’t mean to be callous.”

  “You’re not. But perhaps I’m the hard one. I have no love lost for Roderick. He was a despicable man, and I feel nothing. Only shock. And sorrow for my aunt.”

  “Yes. This will be awful for her.”

  Sam nodded, remembering the emotional and chaotic scene upstairs with his mother when he’d broken the news to her. “Mother’s maids are packing her belongings now so she can go to Aunt Jane straightaway and take Roderick with her. But please go on. You were telling me how you made your determination that the murder had just happened.”

  Yancey took a breath and continued. “The blood was still trickling and the, uh, body was still warm. And there were no other rather ghastly changes evident that occur after death, none of which I suspect you’d want me to delineate for you.”

  Sam held up a staying hand. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve had enough to drink yet to hear any of that.”

  “I thought not.” Yancey’s expression softened, and she made a tsking sound. “Your poor nana, pulling the knife out like that and trying by herself to turn Roderick over. Bless her.”

  “She’s such a frail thing, Yancey. Do you really think she could have pulled that knife out?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, yet Mrs. Edgars says that the knife was on the bed and Her Grace Nana, alone in the room, was trying to turn Roderick over.”

  Sam nodded. “No wonder poor Mrs. Edgars screamed and fainted.”

  “Yet she hardly seems the type, does she? I do wonder, though, Sam, if your nana was actually alone in that room before Mrs. Edgars came in.”

  “You mean Nana startled the murderer, don’t you? And then he fled unseen by her but before Mrs. Edgars happened in?”

  “You’ve been doing some thinking, haven’t you? Yes, I think both of those are possibilities. But Mrs. Edgars didn’t just happen in. She was checking up on Robin, she says, looking to see if the girl was about her duties.” Yancey frowned skeptically. “She does a lot of checking up, doesn’t she? Not very trusting of her staff, I’d say. But, at any rate, there Nana was. When I questioned her, she said she’d been seeking a place to hide from Scotty in one of their games of hide-and-seek. And what she found was a murder … but no murderer.”